I Pray You Know Me When We Meet Again
by Catherine5
Summary: Before five years ago this was always the place you came, and old habits die hard. WilsonCuddy.
1. what a piece of work is man

_- disclaimer:_ if it belonged to me, why would i be writing _fan_fiction?  
_- a/n:_ title and all chapter titles quotes by william shakespeare. beta love to nancy; you're getting credit- deal with it.  
_- apology:_ i shouldn't be writing this because i haven't seen the whole season and i shouldn't be posting it because it's undoubtedly out of character. but I figure, start at the bottom and you've got nowhere to go but up.

**i pray you know me when we meet again**

chapter one/three:  
what a piece of work is man

**the friend**

You're sitting in her office because it's the only place in the damned hospital that's quiet. You can see the lights brighten and dim every time your head pounds and she finds you an hour later in the dark with a pillow in your face.

She touches your shoulder gently but it's enough of a surprise to swing the pillow and catch her backhanded across the face. You can feel your face burn and you stand too quickly and your intention to steady you both fails.

A few seconds later you're back on the couch with your head in your hands and she's smoothing her skirt and taking a place a safe distance from you.

She's close enough to touch you and you almost wish she would. But that's a request buried so deep it's out of your mind and through her eyes; even if you could see her you still wouldn't know she wants it even more.

She knows. Before five years ago this was always the place you came, and old habits die hard.

'She looked like Marilyn Monroe,' you say to the fingers that half cover your mouth. You stare at the wall and the wall stares at her and she stares at you and if you weren't so torn up inside you'd be able to feel the circle, resonating. 'I told her family eight to ten weeks.'

'How long ago?' she asks. You don't notice it, but she thinks her voice sounds too harsh, too professional, and she flinches.

'Nine weeks.'

She nods. It's always harder to be right.

Your eyes are on the wall and your back hunched forward when you feel something soft brush against your knee and take one hand that's dangling over the floor and pull.

'C'mon. I want to show you something.'

Before five years ago, this is where you always came. One way or another you wound up in her presence, by accident or by choice. But from five years ago on, you've gone to another source that usually involves alcohol and a hangover, and while that never sounds bad, you've reverted to your previous ways this time, and you don't know why.

Off the elevator and down a long hall, you only notice she's been holding your hand the whole time when she lets go in front of a window. The blinds are open and you can see through. The corners of your mouth surrender to a smile.

'Father of four.' She says it aloud only to make it more real. 'He'll be released on Monday.'

Four kids, ranging ages sit, stand, and sleep in chairs next to their father's bed and a tired but relieved woman is reclining in the corner flipping through a magazine, looking up every few moments and smiling.

You only realize she's moved away until it's almost too late, and as a last resort dive your hand into the air and manage to catch her arm between her wrist and her elbow.

'Dr. Cuddy.'

You loosen your hold instantly and your hand slides almost to her fingers. She meets your gaze and you know there's something gone that was there before. 'Thanks.'

She nods and smiles and pulls away and all you can do is watch her leave, trying to remember what it is she's obviously forgotten.

**the cripple**

You never talk about her.

Ass? Sure. Chest? Most definitely. But her, as a human and not the insignia of eternal damnation that is clinic duty? Never. So when he asks, it's harder than usual to bury your confusion. You manage of course; with all the noise and distractions of the outdoors you can easily find something or someone to glower at as a reasonable cover.

'You notice anything different about Cuddy lately?'

'More wrinkles?'

He snorts quietly and gives you a Look that says You Know What I Mean (each word spaced and capitalized), and you wonder why he feels the need to vocalize it too.

'I think about Cuddy about as often as religious people think about Satan—when being tempted, or being hunted."

And now you're imagining Cuddy with a pitchfork (and some red leather for fun) and you could swear by the look on his face he knows exactly what you're thinking.

"I kind of doubt Satan enforces clinic duty; from what I remember he's not big on the whole 'heal thy sick thing'.'

Before you can quell your curiosity, your tongue spits out, 'What brought that up?' Cursed thing.

'You mean Cuddy?'

'I'll have you know I'm very protective of my toys,' you answer, and get another image of your boss as a Pac-Man icon, gobbling up animated interns.

His voice breaks your concentration (she was just about to devour Foreman, too) in an octave so long you're not sure if you were supposed to hear it or not. 'Is that all she is to you? A toy?'

Unease smothers the space between you, and reading his face is impossible so you take a shot in the dark with honesty. 'Cuddy's a puzzle. No more no less.'

If you weren't still pawing your way through sheets of unfamiliar ground, you'd have noticed the colour of Wilson's skin fade and the lump in his throat catch and bob but refused to slide down. Even if you had, you might have passed it off as gas, and the shiny look to his eye could be explained by your logical, insensitive mind as allergies.

What you're not expecting is the scrape of iron against concrete and the napkin he drops on his plate as he walks past you with not much more than a 'Scuseme'. You turn and follow him with your eyes, following her and you imagine a big neon sign that flashes BUSTED in capital letters. Your mind picks up on the unintended pun and you file it for later verbal use.

You don't feel guilty that she overheard what you said; you've always assumed she knows where you stand and if she didn't before she does now, so what's the harm? It's his reaction you're contemplating, that scurried, frantic, dogkickedinthestomach look that he's now adorned, and you frown when you realize (and then when you realize you've realized) that it's the only time he's ever left you for a woman.

**the friend**

'Greg's an ass,' you say, talking to the side of her face as she picks up a stack of files.

'Already knew that.'

'Not like he tries to hide it.'

Her expression remains blank.

You follow her to her office where she sets the stack amongst other stacks and sits behind them. Maybe she's _trying _to bury herself.

'Look, Lisa-'

'Dr. Wilson I have a meeting with a patient's family in twenty minutes and since these charts aren't going to organize themselves, I'd really like to try and put a dent in it while I have some time to spare.'

You were expecting an insult directed back at your friend, one of her cunning remarks that show her high heels aren't the only sharp things she's got, or at the very least a short smile to show she knows you're on her side, but all you get is the top of her head as she opens a file.

'He doesn't mean it,' you say softly, afraid that if you say it any louder she'll know it's a lie.

She knows anyway, and with a sigh lowers the pen, lifts her head and leans forward on both arms, folded across her desk. 'Yes, he does. He rarely lies - except to patients - and it doesn't matter anyway because I've known that for years. He's going to silently blame me for his leg for the rest of his life, compare me to the devil because I make him do clinic duty, stare at my ass because he thinks he's being cute and even more silently than he blames me he'll respect me because he knows I'm the only reason he still has a job.'

You absorb her words, nodding in places you know for a fact to be true and tilting your head in parts that seem skeptical (but on further contemplation you'll realize they aren't far fetched).

You stare at her because you expect her to keep speaking and when she doesn't you get confused all over again.

'Then why are you…' You let the adjective fall where it may and then kick yourself because her sigh this time isn't exasperated or patronizing it's defeated.

'He didn't start that conversation all on his own,' she says and covers the aftermath with the protest of her wheeled chair against the thick carpet. She's past you before your teeth have reconnected, and for the second time your hand juts out, this time catching her elbow and this time not received with any warmth or missing part of her; you can't even see what you know to be there.

'Doctor Wilson…' she trails, a warning so distinctly her you have to fight the urge to let go. 'I have a meeting.'

'Not for fifteen minutes,' you remind her, and beg her with your eyes not to go. She pulls away from you, slow enough not to hurt your heart but with enough force to dissuade you from trying again.

'Then I'll be early.'

**the administrator**

You aren't surprised that it's your car being totaled. Of course it couldn't be the car of the Guy Who Hit You. That would be cosmically just, and therefore unacceptable in the Universe's high-stakes game of Let's See How Many Times We Can Fuck With Cuddy Before She Snaps. You groan and kick your automobile and momentarily panic when you don't feel the pain in your toes.

Then you laugh bitterly and realize you feel pain everywhere, and it's all evening out (until the laugh makes you cough and your lungs seize and the soaking wet, muscular, grimy Tow-Truck Guy offers you a sympathetic smile along with his cell phone and a glass of water).

It's then you realize with disgust and self-pity that for all the numbers on your smashed up speed dial, there isn't one of them who wouldn't consider you an inconvenience.

Tow-Truck Guy offers to drive you home, and when you get out of the pick-up and thank him you resist the urge to hug him as well, because not once did he look at your shirt, plastered to your chest from all the rain.

The first thing you do when you get inside is place a voice mail message on your machine at work, explaining that you won't be in tomorrow. Mid-sentence you down three Ibuprofen dry. (And they all think House is the only one who can do that.)

The third thing you do is run a bath and the forth thing you do is realize you're almost too sore to move from your place of moment's rest on the couch let alone climb into the tub. You go back to the bathroom to turn off the water and catch your reflection in the mirror. All cuts and bruises but still whole; you wonder without thinking what it would take for anyone to actually give a damn; tennis is different than a late night phone call, and you haven't had one of those in years.

It's the thought you fall asleep with in the living room in your still-damp clothes because the couch is shorter than the bed and to change your skirt you'd have to bend over and just the prospect of working your dog-tired muscles makes them clench inimically.

It's the thought you wake up to three hours later when the doorbell rings and he's standing on your front porch, looking pitifully guilty. You usher him in and before even removing his jacket his arms have found their way loosely around your waist and his nose is pressed into your neck.

'You should have called me,' he whispers fiercely, knowing it's his fault you didn't.

'I got a ride,' you answer and step back slightly, wincing.

'Can I help? Can I get you anything?'

You can get out, you quip in your head, but can't push the words past your lips. So you opt for the Shake Your Head I'm Fine route, and try to put a semblance of distance in between you. He's giving you a look and you can't discern whether it says I Want To Jump You or Let Me Fix You. Either way it's petulant and you don't want to see it anymore.

'I'm sorry.' He apologizes in a very simple way in a very simple tone, as if he's trying to account for every deed he's ever done that fell to the side of Moral.

'Not your fault,' you say, the shrug in your voice rather than your shoulders and try to hide the fact that you know he's not talking about the accident.

'That's not what I mean,' he says, voicing your unwelcome thoughts.

Part of you wants to protest and part of you wants to know where he's going to take this. Before you can make up your mind in the seconds that fall through the cracks, he's making declarations.

'I've been a shit-faced friend,' he says, and you don't argue with things you know to be true. 'and I want to make it up to you.'

You want to tell him he's wasting his time and you're completely past it, but you can't so you shake your head instead and lie. 'You don't need to make up anything, Wilson. It's fine.'

'Bullshit.' You're taken aback only by the word, because the tone weighs more in sadness than it does in brutality. 'Who'd you get the ride from, Cuddy?'

He spends too much time with House, you think. He's becoming intuitive. Damn it.

'Tennis buddy.' You're on a roll. Just a few more and maybe he'll shut up.

'So where are they now?' he demands, putting his hands on his hips in that I Won't Take No way that fails every time.

'She had an important meeting to get to-'

'-more important than her friend who'd nearly been killed?' He cuts you off mid-sentence and you hide your surprise. The polite pacifist Dr. Wilson is taking a stand. Alert the media.

You wave your arm and ignore the hole of pain that strikes your elbow and radiates up your arm. 'You're exaggerating.'

'It was on the news, Cuddy. The guy was going seventy-five miles an hour. You're lucky to be alive.' You pause and hang on to the last five words. You're angry and you don't know why and you hear your own words like their coming from another Cuddy, standing just behind you.

'So that's why you're here? The news? How would you have known otherwise?'

Your voice is accusatory and he adopts the Defeated look again, leaving you torn between offering him some sort of comfort and leaving him out to dry alone. You can't make up your mind so you remain expressionless, and he drops his head and talks to the floor.

'I wouldn't have. You'dve hid it too well.' Even now, in your own home, just his presence makes you wary and if any pain flashed across your face, he never saw it.

You've noticed this before, the behavior confrontation draws from Wilson. He'd much rather talk to an inanimate object near you than to you directly and it's always pissed you off.

'No. You just don't know me well enough anymore to have been able to figure it out.' The 'anymore' slips and you wish to God you could take it back. That one word will give you away.

'Like I said, shit-faced.' He pauses and sighs and you fold both arms over your chest (not because you think he's looking but because it's the most comfortable defensive stance you have) and ignore the pain still partying gleefully in your nerves. 'We screwed up. House and I. I want to admit that.'

'Why, so you can sleep better at night?'

It's out before you can stop it and you almost turn and tell the other Cuddy to fuck off. Then you remember there isn't another Cuddy and it's just you and you have to live with you for the rest of your life, which makes you wonder why the _hell_ you just said that. You don't like worms and you don't like cans and worms in cans all open and spread around your freshly cleaned kitchen doesn't sound like your idea of a good time.

But he surprises you by shifting his eyes right into yours, and the reality and sincerity of his words do finally make you flinch but you can't tell by the look on his face whether he regrets saying them or not.

'No. So that you don't have to make up imaginary friends to bail you out of real life situations.'

Second thoughts or no, the conversation's reached the foot of the mountain, and this is one hump you're far too tired to climb, so without a word about it you move past him and open the door to the rain. 'I think you'd better go, Dr. Wilson. The weather's only supposed to get worse, and I'd hate for you to get stuck here.'

The accent on your pronoun is just right and he takes the hint, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand.

'Right.'

He's halfway out the door when the slouched shoulders and heavy sigh get around your shielding arms and into your heart and you stop him suddenly with his name. 'I appreciate that you know…' _that you're not the friend you used to be _'but it doesn't change anything.'

He looks at you again and shakes his head. 'It will.'

Only once he leaves do you realize you held the whole conversation in your doorway, and he never took off his coat.

**the friend**

You've screwed up, big time, and no amount of alcohol is going to change that, so you sit in your chair behind your desk in silence and try to think of a way to shovel yourself to China from within the hole you've just dug yourself into.

You can only think of one route, but it doesn't sound appealing, so you rack your mind and exhaust the others first.

If you were Greg, you'd come up with some highly original, flawless idea that would rock her socks and you'd never have to worry about a thing again.

But you're not Greg because Greg doesn't really care, and you do. Which is why you can't get that line out of your head, that single word she spoke that you're fairly certain will make you flinch every time you hear it, regardless of who says it and why.

You twirl the pen between your fingers, legs long and crossed at the ankles and rock back and forth and from side to side. You stare at the three of you on your desk, faces staring back behind a pane of glass and your idea comes back to you once again, followed by the word Anymore.

Damn Cuddy and her one-liners.

You consider calling him, just to see what he'd say, but upon letting your imagination run with the conversation…

_'Just close your eyes, and imagine what it would be like to feel guilty about something. Anything.'_

'Hrm… kinda like indigestion. Or bad moo-shu.'

…you look away from the phone and sigh. Because there's only one way to dig a hole to China.

Persistence.


	2. frailty thy name is woman

_-disclaimer: _in part one  
_-a/n: _bellsie805 and xantichoicex: i'm not sure if this will help, but i've added a designation for whomever's speaking at the top of each section. hopefully that will clear up the switches a little bit.

**i pray you know me when we meet again**

chapter two/three:  
frailty thy name is woman

**the administrator**

He asks you out to lunch one day and you wonder if you need to draw him a diagram on what happens when friendships die.

_'You go this way (arrow), I go that way (arrow) occasionally we say hello (smiley face) and discuss trivial things (tennis racket, dog, book) and then we go our separate ways again (arrows).'_

You make up excuses for a month before caving and you're rewarded with a huge smile and a scheduled lunch date.

Later you see Jimmy talk to Greg and after that Greg glares at you with more disgust than usual, so you flash him a treacly smile just to mess him up. It appears to work because his scowl drops but then he's studying you (in a not so subtle way) and you make an excuse to leave and try not to run for your office.

If you'd have looked back you'd have seen Greg smiling because he just won round one.

Lunch with Jimmy isn't as bad as your mind depicted, and you still have some of the same old things in common. You avoid talking about work because it seems so pitiful a thing to fall back on when you used to talk about everything.

Throughout the meal you're watching his eyes, waiting for his response to your one-worder. You know it's coming because you know James, and try to make the bracing of yourself a purely mental thing while keeping your body in an unassuming stance.

You dare to hope you're in the clear as you dump your trash and walk back toward the hospital, but (like you should have seen coming) he stops just across the street and turns to face you with that solemn stare that always makes you sigh.

'I know you don't want to hear this, but I can't help it. Greg and I are two, unbelievable schmucks who don't deserve you, but unlike Greg who's an egotistical, misanthropic schmuck, I'm a selfish schmuck and I don't care. I want you back.'

You rub the bridge of your nose and try to relieve the impending headache. 'We've always been on civil terms, Wilson. Why can't you just leave it alone?'

With mild curiosity you watch as he reaches into the bag he's been carrying all afternoon (that you politely refrain from telling him looks like one you have in your closet) and pulls out a stained, slightly torn Christmas/Hanukkah card. He hands it to you with a gesture to open it, and your eyes fall upon your own familiar scrawl.

'I found that about a month ago, cleaning out the drawers in my office.'

It's like a lot of cards you'd given to him before five years ago. With a mildly amusing pun in jolly letters on the inside it's far from professional, and details half a page's praises for a good year and hopes for more to come. At the bottom: _love always, Lisa._

'So?'

'So I haven't gotten anything that personal from you in four years. I have a stack of cards at home from random holidays throughout the year and they're all stiff and full of the 'season's greetings' bullshit you pass out to everyone including the interns.'

You sigh heavily, thrust the card back at him and run a hand through your hair, tossing a longing look to the hospital across the street.

'What do you want me to say, James? It's not like I forgive you because there isn't anything to forgive. You did what you had to; Greg needed – still needs you – a hell of a lot more than I do. You made a choice. I'm not looking for you to regret it.'

He nods, out of words. The walk across the street and up the steps is painfully slow. You don't thank him for the lunch because it requires speech, and opening your mouth runs the risk of not knowing what will come out. So you nod your head and smile politely (in that damned, detached and purely professional way) and slink into your office to hide behind paperwork and phone calls and finances.

Falling into your chair, you reach for the first file and open it tiredly with one hand while the other opens a drawer and rummages around for Tylenol. When your eyes finally connect with the page you stop, pills sliding slowly down your throat, and give a soft sigh. The sticky note in the centre of the first page stares back with James' stereotypical doctorly letters and you can't help but chuckle just a bit at his forward thinking.

Little do you know he's watching you discretely through the blinds, and the small shake of your head and light smile let him know for sure that his Saturday night has just been filled with dinner for two.

**the cripple**

Months tick by in ten-hour days and he doesn't even realize his plan is working. His consciousness of the issue is slow like a breath on the neck and the first ticklish sensation hit him over curry chicken at a Vietnamese place down the block on a Saturday afternoon, or so he tells you later on the phone (not in exact words).

You know he's spent the whole weekend elated, and you know standing at the door to the clinic at 7:32 Monday morning that you're gong to be the wrench in his Wheel-O-Love.

Your body weight's fully on one leg and the cane juts out to the side. Your head is inclined in the same direction and you're scrutinizing him just to see if he'll squirm on cue. Never fails.

You hate bats and you hate bushes so the thing out of your mouth before hello is,

'Are you screwing Cuddy?'

He's too stunned by your directness and the seriousness you added just for effect to think of a witty retort and you almost have to laugh at the way he slips on and spits out his words. 'What?- N-no! Of course not!'

'But you _want_ to be screwing Cuddy?'

It's more of a statement than a question because you don't need an answer, merely give him time to think of one as a courteous gesture; the hesitation and flush that climbs his face are confirmation anyway.

You pause, knowing you'd have to Have The Talk sooner or later, and you miraculously manage to swallow your pride for the 2.2 seconds it takes you to grit out, 'Be careful, James.'

To save your ego, you quickly pirouette (quite nicely, you might add) and stalk away.

He's at your side in less than a second and you force a groan back into the pit of your stomach where it came from. Maybe if you're evasive, he'll go away.

'What are you talking about?'

'Careful, it's an adjective; archaic, I think, something about acting with caution. Sounding familiar?'

'I don't need a lesson in etymology, Greg,' he starts.

'Then why'd you ask?'

'For shits and giggles.' You have to give him that one. 'Because I don't understand. Cuddy and I are fine. We're slowly starting to get the friendship back that we had before, even more so. It's great.'

'It's the 'more so' part that worries me,' you grumble and limp onto the elevator.

'Why?' He follows and the instant the doors close rounds on you. 'You aren't jealous, are you?'

It's kind of cute, the way he asks. In the way that begs you not to be, but also craves an honest answer. He doesn't want you to be jealous. He doesn't want you to want her like he does. If you do, he'll draw back, even when he doesn't want to.

You cough violently on the recently popped Vicodin, more for dramatics than actual choking and plant a disgusted grimace on your face that begs him just as equally not to even ask.

'Remember that not actually thin line between love and hate? It's applicable everywhere,' you grouse and give him a warning look.

The sigh of relief he heaves forces you to hide your smile.

'Then what does it matter?'

'Hospital politics, my dear Wilson,' you state, stepping off the elevator. 'Happy Cuddy makes for Happy working conditions, i.e, a manageable amount of clinic duty. Unhappy Cuddy makes for Unhappy working conditions, i.e., the clinic shift from hell. And misery loves company so who do you think she'll stick that on?'

You give him a pointed look as you reach your office, hoping he'll read into the subtext and you won't have to explain.

'You're afraid I'll hurt her.'

You should have known better. With a grunt you drop into your chair and put the cane on the desk. Wilson stands in front of it with his arms crossed.

'_No_, I'm afraid it will end badly and _I'll_ get stuck with more clinic duty.'

'I'm not going to hurt her.'

'Good, then we can stop before this turns into a conversation from _General Hospital_.'

'You love that show.'

'Yeah, and it's on in five, so shoo.'

Wilson shakes his head and smiles broadly. 'You're really worried about her, aren't you?'

'Come off it, Wilson, I'm just worried about my clinic duty. Speaking of which, you're not gonna start ratting me out to Cuddy now that you're in this… whatever the hell it is you're in, are you? Because I might seriously reconsider our standing if you did.'

**the administrator**

You don't know why you agreed to this. It would have been just as easy to rent a car, and far less nerve wracking. Your father was in town for a week before taking off with your new Lexus (new as in exactly the same as you had before). You don't remember giving him your permission (or your keys) but you woke up this morning to a note on the table explaining his four-day detour to South Jersey to visit his sister and that he hoped it wasn't too much of an inconvenience.

He figures you have friends. Silly man.

James offered to drive you.

Four days. Eight car trips, fifteen minutes each. One hundred and twenty minutes total. Confined quarters.

God, why didn't you just rent?

You ask yourself this as he smiles, kills himself trying to make small talk, runs yellow lights and nearly flattens an incautious tabby that darts across the street in front of the car. You figure it either has a death wish or gets off on adrenaline and that James is probably the nicest human being you've ever met when he clambers out into the fierce rain to make sure it's okay.

He's out there for too long and you groan, presuming the worst and hurry to where he stands, drenched and confused.

He can't find it.

By the time you reach your house you're both so wet and cold and trembling you know your heart would have to be made of stone not to invite him in for a towel and something warm to drink.

He doesn't have to be asked twice and the boyish grin he gives you when you throw him a towel and take off your jacket (not remembering how sheer your blouse is) makes you feel like a teenager for a brief second and you shake your head and mutter something about men before ducking into your bedroom to quickly change.

You return in jeans and a dry shirt and are about to offer him coffee when you see him standing in your kitchen holding the beige towel and fidgeting with the hem. The smile spreads to your lips before you can bite it back and as if drawn to it he looks up and smiles back with a light, helpless shrug.

You hold up your hands and he tosses the towel; you step back and chuck it on the bathroom floor.

Three minutes later you're sitting at your kitchen table with hot coffee and he can't stop grinning into his cup.

'What?'

'Nothing,' he mumbles behind the grin, and you give him a Look to say Yeah Right. 'I'm just…' he pauses, as if searching for the right word. 'happy.'

You sigh with a smile of your own and try to deny the fact that at the moment you're pretty happy too. Without thinking extensively you lean over the edge of the table and place a chaste kiss on the side of his mouth.

You aren't there long enough for him to respond, and you don't know what his reaction is because you've decided the milk swirls in your coffee are _fascinating_.

**the friend**

You're standing in her kitchen holding a spatula and a colander, squinting at a recipe on the counter and only an apron would make it more complete. She's smirking at you and you feel like glowering but her laugh is contagious and there's no point in denying how ridiculous you look.

You've had a few of these dinners at one house or another but she's never allowed you to cook before. You've both had enough wine to keep things light and running smoothly (other than your cooking) and what Cuddy informed you is a _Cure_ album plays mutely from the other room.

You're amazed and giddy over the fact that months have gone by and you haven't run out of things to talk about. The hospital is a subject barely broached, and other than the occasional comment pertaining to your other significant other, work remains there.

'I invited Greg,' you say and she snorts rather indelicately.

'Let me guess, he ran for the hills.'

'No, actually he said he'd be delighted...' Her face displays skeptical surprise and her wide eyes and slightly rounded mouth make your laughter uncontrollable. '..then he said he knew you'd make that face.'

Cuddy snaps her mouth closed. 'Ass,' she mutters, but you can tell it's affectionate.

'You hired him.'

'You're friends with him.'

You nod your head. 'Touché.'

She smiles and shakes her head but is instantly distracted by the cleaver you've replaced the colander and spatula with.

'Oh, for the love… let me get this,' she huffs and reaches across you and removes the sharp object from your possession. Her hair is right under your nose and you can't define the fragrance other than Her. No tangerine or honey blossom, no jasmine or lavender. She smells like you remember and no different.

As if she's sensed the humour has faded from your eyes she turns to face you, weapon safely out of reach and your mind never even registers that this might be a bad idea.

For the better part of your life (time wise), in any given situation, if it looks like love and it feels like love, you're about to get kicked in the 'nads with a nasty alimony payment. But you're not married and Cuddy's no housewife, nor is she one of your Blonde Thingies, so maybe…

You've got her pinned between your chest and the counter and the hand you've unknowingly placed on her hip. You're searching her eyes for something that says Yes and upon finding nothing that says No, discover that her lips are slightly chapped and cold but no less inviting.

You know that shock isn't the trigger for her unresponsive state, and you pull away. You can't see her eyes through the pale lids that hide them, and despite the fragility of your situation all you really want to do is kiss them both and make her smile.

Her head is turned away and the would-be silence is filled by the ticking of the face-clock above the stove and the music from the other room has become much louder. You count seven ticks before dropping your hand and stepping away.

'I'm sorry, Lisa, I shouldn't have…'

Her name makes her look up sharply and only three more ticks go by before she's got one hand curled around the back of your neck and her mouth demands a response which you are more than happy to give. Your arms are tugging her closer and her tongue is prying your lips apart; her other hand has tangled itself in your hair and you don't even care that you're hunched over and she's nearly on tip-toe.

You're not sure what it is you have, or what it is you're looking for, but when she brushes her lips against both corners of your lips and your eyelids flutter, you're pretty sure that this will do.


	3. tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow

_- disclaimer: _in part one  
_- a/n: _thank you to adrift, bellsie805 and xantichoicex for reviewing. I hope you enjoyed.

**i pray you know me when we meet again**

chapter three/three:   
tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow… 

**the cripple**

'I don't want to be here,' she gives.

'I don't want you to be here,' you give back. She almost smiles and sits across from you. Sitting means long conversations. With an Oh Well shrug you prop your feet up on the desk and put the cane across your lap.

'I don't want to be Mrs. Wilson Number Four,' she says abruptly, and you pretend not to be taken aback.

'Don't propose,' you recover, earning a wry smirk. 'He cares, you care. Last time I checked, two plus two equaled four.'

'It's not that simple.'

'Sure it is,' you say, and by the tone in your voice, almost convince yourself.

'I love him. As a friend, maybe more. Definitely more. But I can't…' she stops speaking and looks away and you tilt your head and wait patiently for her to speak. As far as you're concerned this is her show—you're going to sit and listen and you figure she'll talk long enough that her problems will sort themselves out and you won't have to give any advice, and if you're lucky she'll knock back the clinic hours.

Or maybe not.

'Look, Cuddy,' you begin when the silence gets too heavy—then pause. There's a grand speech you've prepared, one very House-like, with a few jests thrown in for good measure—but watching her through a steady gaze you know it's pointless.

'Whatever he gives, he's going to want back,' you say simply. 'If you can't - or won't - give it to him, then get out now.' _Because he doesn't deserve another broken heart _is what hangs tightly at the end, but you refuse to say it. Depths to which you won't sink.

She's quiet for too long and your concentration shifts to your leg. It's pulsating and annoying, but only because you're concentrating on it does it hurt, so it's more out of restlessness and agitation than anything else that you pop two pills in your mouth. Cuddy shakes her head and scoffs good-naturedly and you know it's broken the barrier.

'You're worried he's going to get hurt.'

'Why does everyone think I've suddenly grown a conscience?' you snap, hoping to drive her away. She rises, but steps closer instead and you eye her warily.

She laughs suddenly and the sound seems foreign to your ears. 'Underneath that thick, recalcitrant, self-centered exterior-'

'Lies an equally thick, stubborn, egotistical man. I promise.'

She smiles briefly but it fades and she follows your gaze to the blinds.

'You're worried you're going to get hurt too, aren't you?' She doesn't move except for her arms, which tighten across her chest.

'If he leaves again, he can't come back,' she murmurs, and you have to hold your breath to catch it.

You nod slowly and tap the head of your cane absentmindedly.

'He knows that.'

She looks a little surprised and you just look back. 'He should pay me by the hour man talks so much.'

She raises an eyebrow and you smile suggestively. Maybe she'll think you know _all_ the gory details.

'Nice try, House, but we haven't gone that far yet.'

'I don't have to give you _that _talk, do I?' you grouse and begin tapping the cane against the side of the desk.

'I'd really appreciate it if you didn't.'

You smirk suddenly, the look only broadened by her confusion. So you were right after all. 'Cuddy, my dear, I think you just answered your own questions.'

Cuddy and her one-liners. She frowns and you cease your tapping, leaning further back in your chair, wearing your trademark smirk like a gold star.

'You said 'yet'.'

**the administrator**

'God, you're tense.' He's sitting behind you, leaning against the arm of the couch, one leg tucked under him and you can tell from the unrestrained glee in his voice that he's wearing an impossibly boyish grin and relishing in his good fortune. You're sitting with your back to him and his hands are on your shoulders, long fingers gently kneading away at the sailor's knots in your muscles.

'Occupational hazard,' you murmur with a slight shake of your head and a wry grin that he can't see. You aren't sure how you got in this position, or how you came to be wearing an old t-shirt of his, or even how your guard lowered enough to let him get this close.

'Don't you ever… go out and spend the day at a spa or get a massage or something ridiculously feminine like that?'

'Why do that when I've got my own personal Cabana Boy?'

'I don't see any martinis.'

You chuckle and your shoulders vibrate; you don't notice his fingers twitch slightly or that he backs his hips slightly away from you.

'I did when I first started working… I guess I don't think about it that much.' You give a slight shrug of your shoulders and part of your hair spills over your back. The touch he uses to brush it to the side again sends a shudder along your spine and you shift hoping he won't notice.

'About how unbelievably high-strung you are?'

You roll your eyes. 'It's better to think about what you're stressed out about than to dwell on the fact that you're stressed.

'Well if I'd known you thought about House that much I'd have left you alone,' he drawls in a completely genial manner.

'Cute. House isn't the only source of my daily tension.'

'Right,' he nods sincerely. 'I'd rather deal with sick people than finances any day.' You turn and shoot a glare over your shoulder, one that you're sure has no intimidation factor whatsoever. It's hard to look angry when you're really not, especially when he's moved his hands to the base of your neck and under your ears. You shift again.

'I'm serious.'

'Sure,' you mutter dryly and turn back around to give him easier access to your stiff muscles.

'I am! I can go home and, after a few beers and some bad television, usually forget about work.'

You nod once. 'If you didn't you'd go crazy.'

'I just wish you had that off switch too.' There's no insinuation driven into his words, just a small touch of regret.

'The hospital isn't all I think about,' you say softly, and maybe you sounded hurt because he immediately defends his words.

'I didn't mean it like… just, you're so dedicated to your job, sometimes I have to wonder if the woman you've seemed to bury under the administrator is getting a fair shot.'

You have to smile at that. 'She's trying,' you say, and turn again to meet his eyes. His hands don't move from your shoulders and he leans forward into the kiss you're offering. The day with the spatula (as you and your mind refer to it) opened up another door that you've tentatively been walking through for the last month, trying to discern if it's worth the risk to step in all the way.

It's been your experience with love so far that if it looks like love and it feels like love than you haven't quite woken up yet, so the familiar feeling that creeps up on you (like a phone call from an old, old friend) makes you uneasy.

But when you pull back he's smiling again, and you dare to think maybe this time it might be worth it.

As you turn around his hands are sliding up your back under the shirt and before you can protest he's got your bra unhooked and his fingers have moved on to the space behind your shoulder blades.

Your arms instinctively cross in front of you. 'James, what are you-'

'It was in the way,' he says offhandedly and you exhale sharply through an amused grin. With a mental shrug you pull your arms through the straps and stuff the contraption under the cushions of his sofa.

'Under that polite façade sometimes I forget you're still a guy.'

He snorts. 'Oh, _thanks_.'

'You know what I mean.'

A hiss escapes through your teeth when he finds a particularly tight knot and you flinch.

'You alright?'

The pain dissipates and his concern is oddly touching. 'Fine,' you say, but he backs off a little anyway. 'That feels good.'

You can feel his satisfied grin when his lips press against the back of your neck and along your shoulder where the shirt doesn't cover. Convenient. You shudder as goose bumps make their way up your back.

'Cold?'

So naïve.

'No.'

You shift and you imagine the desire in his eyes mirrors your own. Only a few seconds of holding his gaze go by before you're demanding entrance to his mouth and your tongue grazes across his lower lip.

His arms tighten around you and you're chest to chest with your hands on his face, his fingers clawing at your back. You're practically in his lap and try as you might can't escape the brief moment you feel like you're in high school, making out with a 'study buddy' while your daddy's at the grocery store.

But you're not in high school because his hands don't shake as he pulls the shirt over your head and the feel of his mouth on your breasts makes you forget everything other than what he's doing to you.

And somewhere between his hands and his lips and the tangling of limbs, you can't remember that he ever left at all.

**the cripple**

'So you banged the boss,' you call into the next room where he's fishing beers out of your refrigerator. 'Nicely done. You're moving up in the world.'

'Cute,' he grumbles, returning with two bottles and a bag of chips.

'What, afraid I'll put a damper on your _raised_ spirits?' You make no changes to your stoic facial expression and let him interpret your accent as he will. Out of the corner of your eye you see him roll his eyes just as you expected.

'Trying not to get your hopes up; I know how you love details.'

'Of your sex life? No thanks. I'd rather watch gay porn for a week.'

He snorts. 'You'd watch any kind of porn.' He takes a drink before adding on, 'That's good, though. I promised Cuddy I wouldn't share.'

'Oh, well now you have to give.'

'She's got a tattoo,' he offers you just shake your head at the unmistakable tone of glee in his voice. 'Left shoulder blade.'

'Angel, right?' you give back and his furrowed expression almost makes you laugh and you give him a pointed look. 'And you thought it was just a rumour,' you mutter, secretly delighting in knowing you've got everyone stumped, maybe even her.

'I'm not going to speculate on how you know that. But yes. She got it in college.'

'That doesn't count. I already knew that.'

He tips the bottle in your direction. 'Sorry. Scout's honour.'

'You and your badges,' you grumble but there's no bite and you have to hide your smile behind a handful of chips.

You'll be the last to admit it but you're happy for them. Two incredibly dysfunctional people, who've managed to find each other, get lost and find each other again. It's a rarity, and the non-existent romantic in you loves it. But then, you also loved finding Cuddy's bra stuffed under one of James' pillows and still proceed to bring it up whenever possible.

'Greg,' he says, and you can't tell just from his voice whether he's trying to get your attention or questioning what you're thinking; the smile on his face that he's failing so miserably at hiding speaks for itself.

'I know.' The edges of his lips distance themselves even more and you feel like you're talking to a lovesick fifteen year old. Which you are, in a lot of ways. 'Careful,' you warn. 'You wouldn't want your face to stick that way.'

He laughs and his eyes glint. 'Why not?'

**the friend**

You're not really sure what love is. You're sure you've been _in_ love -one out of three at least, right?- but tried and failed _to _love confined within the bonds of holy matrimony. It doesn't mean you're lacking- you have enough love to fill the world as if it were a bowl and from it feed most everyone, or rather, most anyone who asks.

Which, you consider, might be one of your foibles. You spread love like disease, and people catch it, and they fall and you catch them, but you're so busy catching them that you miss the one you declared you loved, and they fall instead. But rather than realize your love isn't gone, just misplaced, they leave.

So once again you're left alone with all this love and not a soul to give it to.

So once again, you go looking for it.

You have an ability backwards from most- to give; yet your hindrance lies on the receiving end. You love to love, that's what he says, love giving away that part of you that makes your love so what it is.

Problem remains, while you know how to love, you're naïve when it comes to getting it back. One of these days you'll realize that love is like people – shapes, sizes, colours, styles, dresses, moods and façades. None alike, no matter how similar.

You've given up on believing it will come back the way you sent it out, and now the cynical part of you always looks for the box marked Return To Sender. But despite what rationality tells you, you always wind up searching for a package with your name and address, no clue where it will be or what it will look like, just going on a hunch that if you search hard enough you'll find it.

So a-questing-for-love you go, when you should be moving away the dust to find the love you already have in front of you, just a little buried.

You can't really be blamed for it – except by them, of course – but they're just as naïve as you are and don't realize you're a man with a heart bigger than most, and if they don't drink it all in who will?

But all your thoughts of love draw you back to her and you wonder bitterly how you'll fuck it up this time. She seems to think you won't, but you've been living with you longer than she has, and you know deep down you're just an idiot at love.

For now, however, she stays and sleeps on silently as your fingers run up and over the goose-bumps on her arm, the length from the top of her shoulder blade to the edge of her wrist, so tantalizingly close to those hands that can assure you almost as much as her lips can that what you feel is love. One could say your touch is absentminded, but you know from nights spent wide awake that she sleeps better with the gentle reassurance that you haven't left, and so you stay awake though dropped lashes and half-sleep just to ease her mind.

You've accepted that the application of love is not your strong suit, but like you haven't before, you've sworn: not this one, not this time.

Whether she'll stay or go you're not really sure, just like you're not really sure it isn't love, but you can tell from the loose grip her fingers have, curled around the side of your unbuttoned shirt, that she'll be there in the morning and for now that's more than enough.

Because if it looks like love, and it feels like love, then just maybe this time…

**/fin**


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